


Boomer Adams

by ausmac



Category: Twelve O'Clock High (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 13:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7978708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausmac/pseuds/ausmac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Australian/American pilot joins the 918th Heavy Bomber Group at a crucial time during the war in Europe and finds himself in the fight of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boomer Adams

**Author's Note:**

> Some years ago I fell in love with an old TV series called Twelve O'Clock High, especially the early seasons with Robert Lansing in the part of General Savage. This was the only story I ever wrote for it.

Boomer Adams' best friend had warned him about weather in England.  "It rains all the time, mate.  I heard you can sleep through summer if you aren't careful.  You better take your Dryzabone.  Trust me!"  Well, Stinger Williams had been right.  Since the moment he stepped off the transport bringing him to England it hadn't stopped raining.  All the way from London to Archbury on the train it had rained, and when he got off to find all the taxis gone, he'd wished he'd listened to Stinger.  One of the locals had given him directions; the field was a couple of miles outside town, easy walking distance to a boy from the bush, except for the rain. 

By the time he'd gone half a mile, he was drenched.  It didn't worry him too much, except when it got in his shoes, making his socks rub.  With a solid, weary patience born of a lifetime's experience he put his head down, pulled his hat further over his face, and trudged on. 

The final indignity was when the car drove by him, flinging mud up against his trousers.  He stopped, took his hat off and threw it on the ground. 

"Bloody hell!  Why don't you watch where you're going!" 

The car stopped, then reversed.  When it reached him the window was wound down and a deep, dry voice spoke from within. 

"Are you heading for the 918th, soldier?" 

Boomer recognised the Voice of Command.  He picked up his hat and put on his head, mud and all.  "Yes sir.  I'm reporting in." 

The door was pushed open.  "Get in - and try to keep that mud to yourself." 

Boomer climbed into the car, dumping his bag onto the floor.  Closing the door, he settled back, then squeezed sideways so as not to dirty the uniform of the officer next to him.  He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face before turning to thank ..... the General. 

Being an observant young man, Boomer was immediately aware of a pair of deeply set eyes studying him with the natural authority of a hawk.  The single star on the shoulder pad told him all he needed to know.  He snapped a salute to his new commanding officer. 

"General." 

General Frank Savage returned the salute.  "And you are..?" 

"Captain Robert Adams, sir." 

Frank Savage settled back, took out his cigarettes and offered one to Boomer, who shook his head.  "Don't smoke, sir.  Never picked up the habit." 

The General lit his cigarette and studied his newest pilot through the climbing haze of smoke.  "Just what sort of accent is that, Captain?" 

Boomer was all too accustomed to that question.  "It's an Aussie...that is, Australian accent, sir." 

The General was obviously a man accustomed to controlling his emotions; most people were puzzled right off by that answer, coming from someone wearing the uniform of the US Army Air Force.  Tapping his ash into the door ashtray, the General continued to watch him as he spoke again. 

"Australian.  What is an Australian doing flying for the United States?" 

"I have dual citizenship - my parents are American, but I was born in Australia, spent most of my life there.  They were the representatives of an aircraft company.  They imported aircraft and parts to Australia for use in the bush.  I guess they just grew to love the place so much they sort of stayed on."   Boomer grinned at the memory of his early life buzzing sheep in the far west of New South Wales.  "I was flying before I could get a car driving license.  It's sort of in the blood." 

"I see."  The General didn't give a bloke too many clues as to how he was reacting to the things a man said; Boomer didn't know whether he was pleased or bored.  "Well, I can always use a good pilot.  You're crew is inexperienced, only your flight Engineer is an old hand.  Major Stovall, our Ground Exec, will go through the necessary signing in procedures with you and get you settled in."  The General leant forward to talk to the driver, instructing him to drop Boomer off at the Group's office. 

"You'll have a day or two to settle in, by the look of this weather."  The General peered up at the grey, sodden sky - Boomer wondered irreverently how the rain dared keep falling when General Savage stared at it like that.  He had an idea his new boss was a man of some will and determination.  Climbing out of the car, he grabbed his bag, saluted, thanked the General for the ride, and headed inside to report for duty. 

The procedures completed, Boomer was shown to his quarters where he had a shower and changed into a clean uniform, dropping his clothing off at the laundry to be cleaned.  His next stop was the Officer's Mess.  He didn't smoke, but he appreciated a beer and a cold one would go down real well. 

Many of the officers had obviously taken a day or two's leave to take advantage of the weather, but the Mess was still relatively packed.  The fire was on, the air was smoky and the piano was being played with enthusiasm, if not a lot of skill.  Boomer parked his butt on an empty bar stool and waved at the bartender.  The man gave him a friendly grin as he carried on the time-honoured tradition of wiping glasses with a white towel.  "What can I get you, Captain?" 

"A cold beer, mate, if you've got one.  And get ready to refill, 'cause one won't touch the sides." 

The officers perched on either side of him swivelled to face him at the sound of his voice.  One, a Captain with blonde hair and a moustache, studied him with blue-eyed fascination.  The other, a red haired, freckled Lieutenant, leant forward and squinted at his uniform. 

"Well, it looks American, but it don't talk American.  'course, the Scotch could have gone to my head."  He peered up at Boomer.  "Say something, will ya!" 

Boomer put one hand to his chest, and began reciting an extremely dirty poem.  The Captain slapped his hand over Boomer's mouth. 

"Sheet!  I know the next verse, don't say it...this is a Christian establishment." 

Boomer grinned and took a swallow of his beer.  "Well, you may not have heard it.  Does it have somethin' to do with sheep..." 

Lieutenant Gordon "Red" Padgett slapped the bar.  "Don't stop the man now 'cause I haven't heard the rest of that poem, and my momma always told me to get a good education.  But I have to know...what State are you from, fella?" 

Boomer grinned and took a swig of beer.  "A very southern State.  It's called Australia.  Heard of it?" 

A number of other officers gathered around the bar to view the wonder from Down Under.  Red frowned in thought. 

"I didn't think foreigners could join the US forces.  How come you got in?" 

"Because my mum and dad are Americans.  I was born in Australia of good American stock.  But I was in California studying when the war broke out.  So I just naturally offered the Army Air Corps my services."  He looked around at the ring of friendly, curious faces, and shrugged.  "I always liked flying and the US Army Air Force has the biggest and best planes." 

"Well," said Red, "you picked the right place.  They seem to do a right lot of that, over some real nasty, violent places.  Me, I'm a southern boy too.  From a little town outside Charlottsville, Virginia.  My friends call me Red.  What about you...you got a nickname, Captain?" 

"Sure.  You can all call me Boomer, if you like." 

Red looked puzzled.  "What's a boomer?" 

"A bloody great big kangaroo.  A big red boomer can jump higher than the moon, kick like a bull, and he's got a nasty right hook, as well.  And," finished Boomer with a grin, "he's a real friendly fella 'less you try shooting at him." 

It was a stroke of good luck for Boomer, meeting Red as he had, because Red was his co-pilot, the first of his crew he was to meet.  Being two country boys they had a lot in common, were both flying mad and had similar easy going natures.  Before they went to their quarters that night the two of them, a little unsteady from a few too many beers, donned slickers and went out to the hardstands. 

Parked at the end of a row of B17s was a brand new plane.  Unlike the others in the row it had no name painted on its nose, but the number matched that on Boomer's squadron duty allocation form.  The two men stood looking up at the bomber's nose, its perspex glistening in the rain, and Red looked across at Boomer. 

"So what are you gonna call her, Boomer?" 

"What am I gonna call her?  How come I get to name her?" 

"Because, Captain Robert Adams, you're the pilot, you pick the name."  Red steadied himself against the bomber's wheel, patting the wheel strut affectionately.  "It's a right important thing, naming your plane.  Has to mean something." 

Boomer studied the shape above him, outlined in a halo of wet moonlight.  "Alright then.  We'll call her the _Waltzing Matilda_.  And paint a big red boomer on her, with wings.  So she can jump over the Nazis and kick 'em to death with her big feet."

 

                                  * * *

 

Boomer was introduced to the rest of his crew the following morning after breakfast.  Sergeant Gary Clarke, his flight engineer, was a number of years older than Boomer, and could have been a problem.  But the Sergeant was from Texas, was as stolid and reliable as a rock and seemed to know how to handle young Captains with their first command.  He offered advice but never in a way that made said Captains feels they were being hustled.  And he went over the enlisted men, telling his aircraft commander the little that he knew about each.  The Sergeant was acting as guide as they spoke, showing his pilot around the base.  As they passed the Group offices, Boomer another pertinent question. 

"I met General Savage last night.  He seems...cool headed."  Boomer watched the Sergeant from the corner of his eye; it was always a little dangerous asking enlisted men about superior officers, but Clarke was the only man he knew who had flown in the General's command. 

The Sergeant smiled mildly.  "The General is a very cool man, Captain.  Hard but fair is the usual description.  Do wrong by him and he'll blister your tail, but give him your best and he'll appreciate it.  I think he's the best commander in the Eighth Air Force."  As if suddenly uncomfortable, the Sergeant begged to be excused, and went about his Sergeantly business. 

He had already met Red, who called the other officers together for breakfast.  Lieutenant Grant Mclean, his Navigator, was Boston born and bred, and seemed a touch snooty to Boomer.  Lieutenant Samuel Bartholomew, his bombardier, was a short, feisty character from Hawaii who chewed gum constantly, swore like a trooper and had one of the best accuracy records of his class.  He told them all at their first crew session the name he'd chosen for the aircraft; everyone but Grant Mclean seemed happy with it.  Boomer decided to ignore Mclean's less than joyful response; sometimes you had to accept that it wasn't possible to please all of the people all of the time.  But Mclean would have to get used to him and his ways, not the other way round.  There was only one boss on the aircraft, and that was him.  A B17 wasn't a democracy. 

And later that day he also met his maintenance crew, with an introduction by Sergeant Clark to his crew chief, Sergeant Harvey "Boss" Maddox.  Maddox was a big bull of a man, gruff with a dry, sarcastic manner.  But Clark told Boomer that there wasn't a better wrench bender in the whole group, and they were real lucky to have him looking after _Matilda_. 

There were so many names and faces to remember, and Boomer had never been that good at remembering names.  He took to making notes in a little pocket book, as he had when he'd started at some new school as a kid.  It helped, he found, to write the names down.  He also started getting acquainted with the other pilots of his squadron, and his direct lord, Major Joe Cobb. 

With typical English unpredictability, the next day dawned clear and fresh, at least over the airfield.  The storm front had drifted east to cover most of Europe, and the Group had at least a day's rest in front of them.  Except for the new birds in the nest.  Boomer and two other new pilots were put onto practise flights, rehearsing flying in formation and exercising their gunners.  None of it was new to Boomer, of course, they'd done it many times at Flight School.  But there was an extra thrill in it for him now; the aircraft alongside him were part of his own group and the lead plain was the General's own plane, the _Piccadilly Lily_ , piloted that day by Major Cobb. 

Cobb drove them hard, having them take different places in the formation, to swap position on turns and dives - which meant throttling the four big engines up and down to delicately weave his wings through the formation.  He came into formation from above, from below, dropped back and went forward.  But he didn't mind, no matter how Red bitched.  It was all part of the process, and it helped him get the feel of the _Matilda_.  

They swapped control, he pretending he was out of it to test Red's handling.  He did it well enough; a little less sure and deft, but well trained and not unconfident.  Then the gunners had their turns when the target plane pulling its long target sock behind it came into view.  The results, while not spectacular, were acceptable.  

A second day of exercises covered practise navigation and bombing.  McLean's navigation was accurate and Sam Batholomew hit the target with near pinpoint accuracy.  Given the time, Boomer knew he could meld his crew into a formidable team. 

That evening practise stopped.  The Toby mug on the shelf above the Officer's Mess fire was turned to indicate a mission the following day, and the Matilda was listed as being operational.  Joe Cobb took Boomer aside after dinner to explain. 

"I would have liked to have given you a couple of more days, Boomer" he said, topping up Boomer's coffee cup, "but General Crowe has called for a maximum effort.  He wants everything that can fly up there.  So you and the other fledglings get thrown in straight off.  You just do it right, and you'll be fine." 

Boomer added sugar and milk to the coffee and stirred it, looking across at the older man thoughtfully.  "Sounds like a big one.  Have you got any advice you'd like to give this new chicken?" 

Cobb grinned.  "Yes.  Don't get your butt shot of.  Other than that, get your plane to the target, drop your bombs in the right place and get it back. 

Boomer grinned.  "Well, when you say it like that, it sounds real simple." 

Breakfast was not an easy meal.  He tried to eat a full meal but the food made his nervous stomach twitch, and he stuck to coffee and toast, deciding to take some tea in a thermos, to have later.  He watched Red tucking into the scrambled eggs and shook his head. 

"My boy, you have a cast iron stomach.  I couldn't eat that right now if my life depended on it." 

Red shrugged as he swallowed a full mouth of egg.  "Always been a hearty eater, comes from being in a big family.  You dig in or you don't get." 

After breakfast, at briefing, General Savage gave them the bad news.  He tapped the big map of Europe with his long pointer, and the tip of the pointer rested at the end of a ribbon that stretched from Archbury to the centre of Germany. 

"The target is Schweinfurt, the German's major ballbearing plant.  All available aircraft of the 8th Air Force will be taking part, which amounts to around 380 planes.  The main target is the ballbearing plant, and the 918th is lead group.  I will be flying lead aircraft, call sign Bluebird 1."  He turned to indicate the secondary board, showing the squadron formation; Boomer noticed that the Matilda was Blackbird 3, and that the Blackbird formation was set right in the centre of the group.  It would be the safest place in the sky, and he looked across at the General, who was handing over the stage to Cobb, with a silent word of thanks.  He and the boys were being given the best chance of surviving the day. 

Savage saw him and stepped down to talk to him as the Navigators went to collect their data, answering his salute. 

"Morning, Captain.  All dried out yet?" 

"G'day sir.  Yep, I sure am." 

Frank gave his youngest commander a mild smile.  "You'll see I've put you in the centre of the group, Captain.  This is a bad one for you to start off with but when General Crowe says maximum effort, he means everyone.  Are you happy with the way your crew are shaping up?" 

"Yes sir, a good bunch.  Lieutenant Bart tells me I only gotta get him there and he'll goose those fellas right in their smoke stacks.  He's got a real sharp eye for that bombsight," Boomer finished, looking over at his bombardier bent over round the sight table, "so I'm pretty sure he'll do alright." 

Boomer saw the General was watching him carefully, judging him, he guessed, to see how he'd go.  Just the way old Bert Higgins, the racehorse trainer, had looked at a likely two year-old doing morning workouts at Warwick Farm in Sydney.  Using his practised eye to judge whether the horse was sound, if it had the wind and leg to make the mile.  _He's wonderin' whether I've got what it takes to get a plane and nine men from here to Germany, drop the bombs and get us all back alive.  It's a good question, General Frank.  I dunno either..._   In that moment he felt an odd affinity for the man in front of him.  General Savage had immense experience, had done this many times, and Boomer had never done it.  But they had both faced the moment, the first morning of putting everything on the line.  They were both pilots. 

"Yes," Savage said, nodding.  "You'll do fine."

 

                                  * * *

 

Their fighter protection left them over France, and from then on they were on there own; three hundred and eighty bombers loaded with bombs and fuel and 3,800 men.  Three thousand, seven hundred and ninety nine Americans and one Aussie/American who'd discovered that fear was a very lonely emotion.  You could share a smile, and even a misery, but fear you kept to yourself.  Especially when you were the commander of a bomber, expected to show a calm, unflappable face to your men. 

The British had put on a couple of diversion attacks which had drawn off a substantial number of fighter squadrons from their path, but as they got closer to Germany these diversions had less effect.  The huge formation was savaged with increasing fury until the air was patterned the tracer of dozens of fighters.  And B17s began falling out of the sky. 

After awhile the fear just blended into one long numb misery, like a tooth being drawn very slowly from his jaw.  He saw a B17 with its tail blown off dropping down out of the sky like some gigantic autumn leaf, fluttering and spinning down, its crew leaping out on the tiny white puffs of their parachutes.  Another bomber staggered out of formation half a mile away, its right wing ablaze as both its starboard engines caught fire.  The wing exploded and the bomber turned over on its back, making it impossible for the crew to get out.  The bomber fell, taking her men with her. 

Although she was in the middle of the pack, the _Matilda_ came in for her own mauling.  FW190s swept through the group, trying to get behind the bombers for the best angle rear shots, and one or two tried their luck at the Bluebird formation.  Some holes were punched through the _Matilda_ 's wings and there were a few strikes at the fuselage, but nobody was hit by fighter fire. 

And then the fighters faded away to land, refuel and rearm and the anti-aircraft took over.  He had heard tales of flak so bad it looked solid enough to walk on, but he'd thought such things were stories to scare the new kids with.  But in the skies over Germany that day he flew his aircraft threw a near-solid wall of metal; the bomber shivered as the explosions shook the air into turbulence all around him.  Aircraft were increasingly struck, and he saw planes going down around him with smoke pouring from their engines, with wings shattered, noses blown away.  The fighters had been bad enough, but his gunners could fire back at those.  The flak they could only endure. 

Time distorted, reality faded in and out in a haze of fear and noise and death.  The _Matilda_ shook sickeningly from near misses and Boomer grew more tired with each passing minute.  It was a nearly impossible task, to guide the plane through the flak, to keep his position in the formation; his arms and hands ached from the jarring, his head buzzed and his eyes were red with the strain.  It was with a sort of dumb pleasure that he heard his navigator telling him they were at the IP; he looked over and saw the _Piccadilly Lily_ swinging toward the target, followed in astonishingly precise order by the rest of the group.  He put the _Matilda_ into the slot, at the correct altitude and heading, then switched control over to the bombardier.  For a few minutes he had nothing to do but pray they dropped their load in the right place and that the General would some how get them out of there alive... 

He felt the _Matilda_ jump at the same moment as Sam's excited voice came over the intercom. 

"Bombs gone, skipper!  You've got her back." 

Boomer took hold of the yoke and pushed his mike on with his chin.  "How does it look, Sam?" 

There was a moment's silence, then Sam answered.  "It's rainin' ballbearings down there, I guess.  Can we go home now, Boomer?" 

As if in answer, General Savage's calm voice came into his earphones. 

"Blackbird one to all Birds.  Well done, all.  Let's go home."  The lead squadron turned to 265 and soon the survivors of the second Schweinfurt raid were heading back towards England. 

As if enraged by the bombing (which they probably had a right to be, Boomer reflected) the flak was even more hideous going out, if that was possible.  More holes peppered the Matilda's body, and they once more had to run the gauntlet of fighters heading back towards the Channel.  Boomer lost count of how many B17s he saw going down...the sky was black with smoke.  It was a cold and bitter victory. 

After a day spent away they finally made it back to Archbury, and then had to circle while the aircraft with wounded landed first.  When, at last, it was their turn Boomer dropped down towards the ground and felt the wheels touch the runway with weary relief.  He taxied the _Matilda_ to her hardstand on two engines, then cut the last two, sitting there for some moments as the motor sounds faded and the propellers slowed to a stop.  He turned to look at Red, smiled tiredly at his weary, red-eyed co-pilot. 

"Jeeze, that was awful.  It's gotta get better after this...I dunno how it could get worse!" 

Red finished closing down the systems, then unclipped himself and pulled off his cap.  "I'll drink to that, as soon as humanly possible.  Let's get to Interrogation and make our reports so we hit the Mess before its crowded out.  I'll let you buy the first one." 

When they'd finished making their reports the crew split up, with the officers heading for the Mess.  After a couple of weak English beers Boomer felt considerably better; he and Red parked themselves in a corner out of the way of the noisy crowd around them. 

Red stared at the half-filled glass of scotch and yawned.  "Lord, I'm weary.  I feel like every moving part in my poor ol' body is stretched right out o' shape."  He looked up at Boomer with a tired grin.  "But you, my Captain, you look ok, considering.  About next time, though: If you gotta sing, could you try to hit a key now'n then..." 

"Singing?"  Boomer frowned.  "What singing?" 

Red looked at Boomer, puzzled.  "All the way in to the drop you were hummin' and singin'...don't you remember?  It went like this..."  Red hummed a few bars and Boomer blinked. 

"That's 'Waltzing Matilda'!  I don't remember that!  Are you sure?" 

Red nodded, grinning.  "No way will I ever forget that.  So you don't even remember....?  How about that!  Wait'll I tell the boys..." 

"No, don't tell them."  Boomer was too tired to consider it right then, but it sounded like the sort of crazy thing he'd do, in a pinch.  "I don't want them to think their pilot's a dimwit.  I s'pose I was sort of thinking of other things..." 

Red nodded, sipping his Scotch.  "Sure, I get it.  So was I, cobber, so was I....." 

Aircrew are a superstitious bunch and it became a tradition.  It was something lucky to be carried on, that he hummed that bloody song as they lined up on the target.  It was only that first, torrid, murderous time, when the 8th Air Force lost sixty bombers in one raid, that he never remembered singing it....


End file.
